And Most Wickedly I Did
by randomsquare
Summary: Maybe bluffing her way into the crew of the notorious Captain Hook wasn't Emma Swan's smartest move. But with a bounty to collect and a son to get back to, desperate times call for desperate measures. But when things don't go to plan, Emma must decide whether it is better to take a chance on a pirate than go it alone. CS EF/Pirates AU. M for sex, violence, and all that other stuff.


**A/N: And now for something completely different, at least for me. A tale of shifting loyalties, magic, and adventure on the high seas. It takes its title from a line in** _ **The Ballad of Captain Kidd**_ **, because honestly, pirate song, how could I not?**

 **Chapter One**

Tracking him down wasn't the problem. Whatever else one might say about the infamous Captain Hook, he was not exactly in the business of going unnoticed. At noon she hears rumblings of black sails spotted out by the bluffs, and by nightfall he's right where she expects him to be, drinking himself stupid at the only tavern in town with a sordid enough reputation to match his own.

Even on a clear sky night such as this, the tavern is uncomfortably warm inside when Emma makes her entrance, the room already ripe with the stench of sweat, vomit and sex; All the markers of a truly respectable establishment. The place is positively awash with drunken sailors and pirates alike, the latter in a clear celebratory spirit. If the bulging pouches tied to their belts and swarm of girls keeping them company are to be believed, the Jolly Roger's latest prize must have delivered quite the haul.

The proceeds of which the men seem all too willing to part with, as they carelessly fritter their shares away on cup after cup of strong dark liquor, lost in the admiring eyes of the women on their laps. For some it is their first landfall and here they are, already walking right into the clutches of the grizzled barkeep and his bevy of whores, who are only too eager to pry secrets from their lips and gold from their pockets between tender touches and whispered flatteries. A fate the men look none too concerned about, by the looks of things.

And there, in the middle of the ruckus, sits none other than the Captain himself, goblet in hand, a cluster of women drawn to his side as he regales them with some dramatic tale or other. It has to be him. She's heard tell of his dashing good looks, and she's a little perturbed to realize the rumors haven't been exaggerated in the least. Even at a distance he is striking, dark features contrasting against pale skin, quiet confidence oozing from every pore as he speaks. She has to admit, he cuts quite the imposing figure clad as he is entirely in black leather from head to toe, his bearing none the worse off after nigh on an hour of heavy drinking.

But it's the glinting silver appendage resting on the table in front of him that has Emma convinced she's found the right man. In the place of his left hand is the instrument which has allowed the man to build his reputation as one of the fiercest pirates in all the realm. Hook. Captain Hook. The stories can never quite agree about how it was that Captain Hook came to have a hook for a hand. Some stories say he lost it to a crocodile, others to a demon, a lover's jealous husband, or a sorcerer. What the legends never waver on, however, is the certainty of getting its sharpened point embedded into one's neck if one should be foolish enough to cross him.

And this is the man with whom Emma Swan desires an audience.

The girls present a problem, but not an impossible one. The Captain is a fine catch in a place like this. Formidable _and_ handsome? Rich _and_ charming? One night with such a man might make up for months of unsatisfying encounters with portly merchant sailors with poor manners and worse breath. They won't give him up without a fight. Fortunately, Emma is not entirely without feminine wiles of her own. Much like his hook, they are an instrument, a tool for getting her own way, and she has come prepared.

She waits until she is in his line of sight before she undoes the clasp of her cloak, removing the garment in one swift move, letting her long golden tresses fall across her shoulders in a way that catches the light from the chandelier.

It draws attention, yellow hair like hers. Always has. "A right noble head of hair," a Sister at the orphanage used to say, begging her to let her brush it out at night. Emma wasn't so sure about that, the noble part, but it had certainly fetched a good price from the wigmakers in the capital in a pinch. Of course, where her hair failed to draw attention, that was where the corset worked its magic. It had been a pain in the neck lacing the thing up on her own, and even now she was sure the outline of the thing might stay permanently etched into her skin, it was drawn so tight. But she can't deny it has the intended effect, the swell of her breasts spilling pleasingly from the top of the garment already catching the appreciative glances of nearby patrons.

This is part of the charade, of course. Not so much a ruse as a play in three acts. Emma had never been one for the traveling players with their chalky white faces and grandiose soliloquies. Why, everyone knew actors were little better than peddlers, selling their wares from town to town. And what lasting use could you take away from a play, really? Laughter? What good was laughter to a starving child, who hadn't eaten for three days? No, Emma had never learned to appreciate the theater. But theatricality? Well, that was an entirely different matter. It was just another instrument, after all.

She takes a seat not too far from where the fire flickers useless in the hearth, still in his line of sight, but not glaringly so. A woman wearing a sneer and precious else delivers her mug of mulled wine in exchange for a handful of silver, before quickly moving onto someone more appreciative of her... assets. Taking a sip from her mug, Emma subtly casts her eyes around for a likely scene partner. There's already a few prospects, men who've quickly realized the presence of an unaccompanied woman in their midst, the spirits warming their bellies also filling them with enough false courage to do something about it. But it's the bearded man from the next table over who is the first to act, stepping into Emma's space on unsteady legs.

And so the play begins.

"S'not right," the stranger slurs, as he takes a seat on the bench beside her, struggling a little to maintain his balance as he does so. "Lass li' you, ought no' be here all alone." Ah, so it's chivalry that is his primary motivation. _Of course._

"Well, I'm not alone any more, am I?" Emma smiles at him. Her smile seems to pull him up short for a second, until his confusion makes way for a big, dopey grin.

"Tha's right," he croons, one big beefy hand coming up to pat her leg. It's gross enough to begin with, but when he starts to slide it further up her thigh, that's where Emma draws the line. Her smile drops at once, her hand coming up to land on top of his.

If he thinks this is a come-on, he's in for a rude awakening when she leans forward and hisses into his ear, " _Not_ for sale. So remove your hand or I'll remove it for you."

He doesn't of course, his fingers digging tighter into her flesh instead, hard-won territory he's none too eager to forfeit. So she grabs his fingers and bends them back until there's a satisfying crack. His sudden howl of pain breaks above the usual din, and suddenly they have an audience. Emma can feel more than a dozen sets of eyes on her as she rises from her seat. But before she can get far, the bearded man snatches her arm in his uninjured hand, squeezing tightly. "Tha' weren't very nice, lass." The dopey grin from earlier is long gone now, his face a perfect picture of barely contained rage.

She might be more inclined to feel guilty about baiting him, if he hadn't fallen into his role so easily. Just because she was casting for a villain of the piece, didn't mean he had to play one.

But this man was clearly a natural to the role, bringing his injured hand back, with the intent to strike. And he would have, had a hand not suddenly grasped his collar from behind, pulling him backwards out of his seat, his grip around Emma's wrist loosening as fights to keep his balance. He doesn't succeed, falling onto the stone floor rather hard, the man who'd pulled him back now standing over him with one black leather boot resting on his chest.

It's him. _Hook_.

"You know," he says to the man on the floor in a deceptively casual tone, digging his heel into his sternum. "It's poor form to lay hands on a lady without her permission." There's a lilt to his accent, something unexpectedly polished about it, something learned. It's not what Emma expects from a man of his reputation, and yet, the malice curling his words still comes off plenty convincing.

The trapped man begins to cuss and spit, until his captive applies more pressure, effectively cutting him off. "I think you may have misunderstood, mate. I wasn't asking for your side of the story," he says, a razor sharp edge creeping into his voice. "I'm not interested in your drunken excuses. What I _am_ interested in, is you apologizing to the lady, and being on your merry way."

It's about now that Emma realizes how quiet the room has become, the other patrons' attentions drawn to the unfolding spectacle, to the promise of a fight.

His protestations are choked back this time when the boot finds its way to his throat.

"Now, now," the Captain says. "Let's not make this any harder than it needs to be. Repeat after me: _I'm sorry_." He relaxes his foot a little, to give the man some breathing room.

"Sor...ry," the bearded man manages with a splutter.

"Not to me, you daft prick," Hook sighs, massaging his temples with his right hand, as if he's conversing with a simpleton. "To the lass." He gestures back to where Emma stands, and for the first time she finds herself caught under the scrutiny of intelligent blue eyes. "Or shall I let her break the rest of your fingers first?" he muses aloud.

"Sorry... Sorry lass. I din' mean it, honest." The apologies were coming thick and fast now, to the jeers of the crowd.

Hook raps his fist against the table with a smirk, to the amusement of those watching. "You see? Don't you feel better now?" he asks the man, prodding him again with his boot.

"Y... yes."

"Good," he says, his smirk falling away at once to reveal something colder and altogether more frightening. "Now get out of my sight. For if I should see your face again, it'll have my hook decorating your eye socket. Do we understand one another?"

He finally takes his foot away, and it's almost comical how fast the man scurries to his feet, disappearing through the crowd who have already begun to disperse, let down by the relative bloodlessness of the encounter.

"Now," the pirate says, letting his gaze drift lazily back to where Emma still stands, cloak bundled hurriedly in her arms. "Perhaps another drink is in order, aye?" He snatches a pair of glasses containing some amber liquid from a nearby tray, and sets them down on the table beside Emma's overturned mug, spilled in the fray. He himself takes the place of her recently departed companion, holding his scabbard steady in his hand as he settles himself with a foot on either side of the wooden bench, facing her. After a moment's hesitation she nods, resuming her seat.

"Thank you," Emma says, making an effort to keep her tone even. "But I had the situation handled." She does her best to avoid looking him in the eye.

To her surprise, her new companion chuckles at this. "Aye, lass, by the looks of the fingers on him, I dare say you did. But would you really deny me the opportunity to grant the lech a much needed education on proper conduct towards young ladies?"

Emma doesn't quite manage to suppress her snort. Pretty face or no, Captain Hook was no romantic hero; He hadn't intervened because he'd been concerned for her safety. Though he might carry himself off as an honorable thief, with his learned intonations and talk of good form, that hadn't been his motivation. No, a man like that, he had a reputation to protect. It had been an opportunity for a show of strength, nothing more.

And he'd grasped it with, well... one hand, just as she hoped he would.

"Do you often concern yourself with proper conduct?" Emma asks, with a hint of a challenge. "That doesn't sound very pirate-like to me."

"No?" he asks amused, lifting the glass of dark spirits to his lips. "Perhaps you've simply not been tangling with the right sort of pirate, then, lass?"

"Perhaps," she casts doubtfully, reaching for her own glass. The rum is both spicy and sweet on her tongue, leaving a delicious burn down her throat which she can feel instantly warming her insides. It's a cut above the usual dockside tavern swill, and she's momentarily impressed.

It's so good, she almost doesn't realize how much closer Hook has become, until she feels the iron grip of his hand upon her arm, and the shock of cold metal through the material of her bodice. It would almost be funny, considering how he'd dealt with the last man who'd tried to lay his hands on her, but for the sharp point digging into the boning of her corset, reminding her that this is no laughing matter.

She struggles against him, but if anything his grip tightens as he leans forward, his warm breath ghosting against the shell of her ear. "I appreciate a pantomime as much as the next man, love. But you needn't have bothered on my account."

"What are you-" He silences her denial with a single look as he leans back, and she knows then that her play is at an end. There will be no third act.

"You call _this_ proper conduct?" she hisses through gritted teeth.

" _Don't_ ," he says sharply. "Don't insult my intelligence. Or yours. For you're hardly some wide-eyed young thing who has merely found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. You've a purpose in this establishment, and I wish to know what it is."

She doesn't answer him at first, but as his encounter with the bearded man before her had clearly illustrated, he knew how to apply the necessary pressure, the tip of his hook digging painfully into her abdomen.

"I'm looking for a man," she gasps when the pain grows too great.

At once, the pressure eases, a smirk painting the Captain's face. "Well, as you can see, darling, we are thick on the ground," he says sardonically, motioning to the crowd of faces nearby. "Or is there perhaps one man in particular you are seeking?"

He leans forward as he says this, and she can practically taste the spicy scent of rum on his breath, as he cocks one eyebrow, awaiting an answer. She ought to be amazed with the way he has managed to imbue his words with both menace, and if she's not mistaken, a hint of flirtation.

 _Interesting._

"Edward Teach," she says, enjoying the way his jaw clenches at the very sound of the name. "I've come seeking your assistance in taking down Blackbeard."


End file.
